


Gerry Wimsey falls in love.

by constantlearner



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers, Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
Genre: Battle of Britain, Bletchley Park, F/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 13:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2231106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constantlearner/pseuds/constantlearner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story starts in June 1940. Jerry Wimsey goes to a dance and meets Dorothea Callum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It wasn't until I'd written the entire story that I realised that Lord St. George's family call him Jerry rather than Gerry. My only excuse is that by the time Dorothea sees his name written down, she like me, thinks of him so firmly as Gerry that she can't quite picture his name with a J. Sorry about that. I know it's a bad excuse.

 

She was like his Aunt Harriet. That was what first attracted his attention. She was tall for a woman, nearly his own height, like his Aunt Harriet. They could dance cheek to cheek. She danced well, like his Aunt Harriet. He noticed this first, because she was dancing with someone else the first time he saw her. That someone else was younger, but dressed in the same blue as himself. They seemed happy and relaxed together. The laughed and chatted as they danced. This was no first date (or second date or third). It seemed she was someone else’s girl. The part of himself that Gerry did not especially like found that the most intriguing thing about her, at first. If she had been sitting out, wallflower-like, he would never have given her a second glance, never have let the second glance lead to a first dance. He would never have discovered the rest.

She danced well. Disclosing a little, asking a little more, making a brief intriguing comment, asking a pertinent question, using exactly the right word. She was innocently displaying a superb education, like a girl who doesn’t realise that a strap from her underwear is showing slightly at the neckline of her frock. (It wasn’t. He looked.) He had no idea how she had actually danced. He presumed her feet and legs and hips had been doing all the right things. Maybe he really was more like his Uncle Peter than he thought. He would have to be careful.  Gerry Wimsey would rather sleep soundly, without being tormented by the demons of moral scruples and responsibility. These, or some other demons, would find him soon enough.

In the meantime, he would ask this intriguing mind, wrapped up in a very pleasant (now he came to give it more thought) body, for another dance. She was, like his Aunt Harriet, a writer and, like his Aunt Harriet, was deprecating about her writing.

“Historical romances? Historical adventures? Given the times we are living in, does anybody need them?” she had asked.

“The romance, very definitely.” he replied, tightening his arm around her.

She glanced at him, startled. He could see she was immediately starting to work out what he meant by it. So, had he managed to intrigue her? Good.

“Does your boyfriend mind you dancing with me?”

“My boyfriend? Oh, Roger’s just a friend. The more I dance with someone else, the less he has to dance with me and the more he can dance with someone else, which is really what he came here for.”

So this Roger was no competition then? By rights, that should have robbed her of half her charm in Gerry’s eyes. Gerry found that the waist beneath his hand was still as slim; the serious face so close to his was just as sweet. He was pleased to discover that she was enjoying this dance with him for its own sake and not just to make a boyfriend jealous. Why did the lack of a boyfriend make him feel so triumphant?

He asked her for a third dance. She had been up at Oxford too, but after he had gone down. Perhaps it was just as well. He thought she would not have approved of Lord St. George. Perhaps Lord St. George, idiot that he had been, would not have seen past the modest floral tea-dressed exterior and unfashionably long (but spectacularly beautiful) hair to the quirky, perceptive mind. Like his Aunt Harriet, she had been at Shrewsbury College. Like his Aunt Harriet she had read English Literature. She had graduated that summer.

“I wanted to do something useful straight away, but Mother and Father insisted that I finished my degree.”

“So what do you do now?”

“Oh, it’s quite boring. Filing and clerical stuff really, but it still needs to be done.”

Perfect grace and perfect manners. His uniform would tell her what he did. She had the tact to say nothing when there was nothing to be said, but the brief extra pressure of her hand made him feel appreciated in a way that no amount of speeches ever had. 

Like his Aunt Harriet, she came from the sort of intellectual middle-class background his mother would despise. He thought her childhood had been more comfortable, happier than his aunt’s. There can been friends and a sailing dinghy and holidays on the Norfolk Broads and in the Lake District. Unlike his Aunt Harriet she had an air of bubbling optimism, as if she found the universe fundamentally a good place despite current events. He became suddenly fiercely determined that no-one, most especially himself, should shatter that belief. She looked at him again – a calm, measuring look as his arm tightened about her. He had not meant it to. He kissed her cheek once, lightly, in silent apology. She did not seem to mind, but nor did she kiss him in return.

Dorothea (even her name was euphoniously polysyllabic) was not the sort of girl you took outside for a prolonged “breath of fresh air”, not at any rate on first acquaintance. Instead, they danced every dance together.

She was so like his Aunt Harriet that he felt it would be unwise to mention his parents and the title that loomed over his future. She might object to the strawberry leaves as strongly as his Aunt Harriet had. Gerry was not minded to wait for five years.

It was safe enough to mention his aunt in Hertfordshire with her children, his other aunt driving an ambulance in London, his charming grandmother and her devotion to her vicious cat.

At the end of the evening, and it was not a very late end, he asked if he might see her home.

“I’m quite safe, you know.” he said, seeing her doubtful expression.

 “Thank-you.” she said, coming to a decision. “I’ll let Roger know he doesn’t have to see me to the station.”

Gerry, judging by the amount of attention Roger had been paying to a curly haired girl in a pink frock, thought he would be only to glad to have someone else see Dorothea to the station. In this, he might have wronged the boy. Roger had given Gerry a cool, direct stare.

Still maintaining eye contact, Roger had said, “See that you take very great care of her. I have her brother to answer to.”

Gerry wondered how it felt to have childhood friends like that.

Thanks to the joys of summer-time and double-summer time, the July night was still not completely dark, but some stars were out. They were easier to see in the blackout. Gerry knew enough stars to point out to a pretty girl. This pretty girl knew a lot more about stars than he did.

He nearly left it too late to say, “Can I see you again? How could I get in touch with you?”

She thought for a moment, took a stump of pencil and a small exercise book which had been stuffed inside her gas-mask case, tore out a leaf and scribbled an address on it.

“Will you be alright?” he asked pointlessly, as she boarded the train.

“Of course. Thank-you for waiting with me. I enjoyed the dances, and meeting you. Goodbye.”

And then she was gone and the train was gone. So she thought it was a meaningless gesture, that he wouldn’t write, did she? In that case there would be a letter in the post for her before twenty-four hours had passed. He glanced down at the scrap of paper in his hand. Although not identical, the address had a lot of similarities to the one which would, in extremities only, reach his Uncle Peter when he was unreachable by other means. Gerry had not quite escaped the family habit of quotation.

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

He said it aloud and then closed his fingers tightly over the precious scrap of paper. Physical resemblances notwithstanding, Gerry knew he was quite different from his Uncle Peter. Gerry was a flippant realist who definitely did not believe in love at first sight. It had been at least the third dance before he realised he had met the only girl he could ever think of marrying.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Gerry toyed with the idea of writing to her without giving a surname. A moment’s thought told him that this idea was nonsensical. He was by no means certain she would want to see him. That by itself was a novelty. Not knowing if she was delayed, not coming because she couldn’t, or not coming because she wouldn’t, would be intolerable. There was, however, the wretched surname. The only thing to do was to give a false one. With the rest of the address correct, it would be fairly likely to find him. He could make it alright with a quiet word in the right ears. With a grin, he finished off his letter, “yours sincerely, Gerry Bredon”.

He had been pretty sure she did not work in London, but had chosen their rendezvous as if he believed she did. She had written back saying that it would be impossible to meet him for lunch on a working day, but telling him when her next day off was. So, she worked nowhere near the conveniently memorable box number she had given him. She did however, tell him when her next day off was. With a little bit of swopping and a few favours done and called in, here he was at Victoria station, not under the clock but with a good view of it. He had been early. (How long she would wait for him? _Would_ she wait for him?) At least this was entirely the wrong station for Duke’s Denver. He would have to be very unlucky indeed to run into his mater. Gerry always had been lucky. (Except in the matters of horses and cards, of course.)

He glanced around. There she was, also not under the clock, also glancing around. He thought he had probably seen her first. He moved to stand under the clock anyway. They arrived there at just the same time. She held her hand out to shake his. He shook it but kissed her cheek. So there was something that would make this marvellously composed angel blush? He felt relieved.

It was early yet, far too early to take her for luncheon. They wandered around Green Park and St. James Park, fending off the occasional importunate Canada goose. Dorothea shooed these away with calm authority. Gerry tried not to look too impressed.

“I presume you were brought up in the country then?”

“No, worse luck.” she said as she gave the last three geese their marching (or waddling) orders. “Mrs Dixon has geese though.”

And she explained about her mother’s old nurse, and the farm by the lake and that first holiday when the lake had frozen and she and her brother had skated nearly form one end to the other.

“The others were worried about us, because we were very much town children, but in some ways it was a much bigger risk for them. They were skating in the dark. Worst for Nancy really, because she had only just stopped being ill and was skating by herself. At least the others were all together.”

“That’s only half a story.” he said, “Who’s Nancy and who are the others?”

So they sat on a bench and Dorothea explained about the sledges, and how Dick had been determined to rig the sail on theirs, and how Nancy had had mumps and about the igloo and the expedition to the North Pole, which had really been a kind of summerhouse. Sitting in the sitting in the warm sunlight, Gerry, too hot in his uniform, found himself shivering slightly. Dorothea really could tell a story. He felt almost surprised to see Dorothea sitting next to him in a pale green linen outfit and neat straw hat, instead of a woollen coat and a rabbit-skin hat when she got to the end of the story.

“Is there anymore?” he asked greedily when she stopped.

“Not that holiday, no.” she replied. “Plenty of other things happened after that of course, but those were in other holidays.”

After a short pause, she asked, “What does it feel like flying?”

And he told her, eyes locked on hers, as if it was the most important thing he had ever told anyone, which it was.

“ …. And she turns faster and climbs quicker…. A Spitfire becomes part of you…. We were told you don’t just strap yourself into a Spit, you buckle a Spitfire on to you….” Well he had found his battle, and found his trusty steed and armour all in one, and now it seemed fate had not let him down in the matter of a lady fair either. “…..If you run your hand very gently over the wings you feel how smooth they are because the rivets are counter-sunk ….. She’s the most perfect thing in the air. If you apply the brakes a bit sharpish on the ground she tends to go nose down. I think that’s because she hates being on the ground when she could be flying.” He had kept that little piece of whimsy to himself up until now.

“And do you hate being on the ground?” Her voice was gentle, offering no judgement whatever his answer.

“Not now. Now is just about perfect too.” Somehow, he was holding both her hands in his, although he had no real recollection of doing so. “Dorothea.” He said her name purely for the pleasure of saying it, smiled at her and raise one hand gently to his lips. She looked delightful when she blushed. He told her so. She didn’t look very pleased.

“What’s the matter, have I upset you?”

“It may be childish, but I don’t suppose anybody likes being teased too much by someone they hardly know.”

“I didn’t mean to tease. I’m sorry I offended you. I would like to know you well enough to tease you - although I won’t tease if you don’t want me to.” How he was going to keep that promise, Gerry had no idea. “Let me buy you lunch to make up for it. Do you want to walk for a bit again first?”

Walking through the park with her hand on his arm, thirty men in khaki could have asked him where the “Brylcream boys” had been at Dunkirk and he wouldn’t have cared. (Answer: above 10,000ft for God-knows-what reason and you’d have known all about it if we hadn’t been there, chum.)

“I do have to be back at work late this afternoon.” Dorothea said, “So if you don’t mind, might we have lunch not too late?”

So this wasn’t really a proper day off? Perhaps she had been a little keener to see him again than he had feared? Perhaps she had better plans for the next day off? Gerry decided to believe the first idea.

“How not-too-late?”

“There’s a train I should get from Euston at ten past two.”

“Can I ask what you do, now?”

“Oh, filing, stuff like that. Lots of boring but important stuff got moved out of London. Old records and what not.”

“So boring it gets filed on a Friday evening?”

“Oh, they have to have someone around to answer telephones and so forth.”

Gerry didn’t believe a word of it, but she did say it very well.

* * *

 

They were standing at Euston. Gerry had a scrap of paper with the address of her billet in his pocket.

“My landlady reads postcards.” she had warned him. Gerry nearly said “Doesn’t everyone?” but stopped himself in time. If she thought the habit reprehensible, he would simply stop doing it.

“When can I see you again?” he asked.

“I have another 3 days of 4 ’til midnight, then a day off, then a week of midnight until 9am.”

“You’re handy for the Oxford-Cambridge line. Would a day in Cambridge suit you?”

She smiled, rather shyly. “I would like that.”

He could feel the slight in drawing of breath, the moment she made a decision.

“Thank for lunch.” she said, and then “I liked meeting you again.”

He was not surprised when she leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. (She was probably more surprised herself.) He kissed her on the lips, softly, and waited for her reaction.

She smiled at him, now even more surprised but making a tolerable attempt at hiding it.

Then she was gone, walking along the platform in her modest, summer-before-the-war best frock, all the more graceful for the longer skirt. She waved once, before she stepped into a carriage. Gerry waited by the ticket barrier until the train pulled out.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 Although the day was overcast (and Gerry had to admit it might have been difficult to take his allotted day off otherwise), it was still warm enough. They wandered around the colleges in the morning. Her wonderful hair was loosely tied back with a ribbon, a circumstance for which she felt the need to apologise.

“I’ve been getting so many headaches. This is the only thing that helps.”

“With all that filing.” he said it solemnly.

“You promised you wouldn’t tease. Anyway, it is filing, whatever you may think.”

“In which case, it isn’t teasing.”

He kissed her, briefly and gently.

“Gerry, you can’t kiss me in the middle of a quad!”

“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it.  Not our university. Not our quad. We’re just visitors.”

Dorothea, newly emancipated from college and university rules, looked doubtful at this.

“Why do you think I chose Cambridge and not Oxford?” he asked. It had been to avoid anyone he knew hailing him by name, which would be awkward.

“I thought it was because it’s nearer where you’re based. And because we have both of us spent three years in Oxford and know its architecture pretty well?” she suggested. Gerry wasn’t sure that he did.  He found her looking at him curiously.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing, sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. I was thinking of something else.”

“Considering how much I enjoy looking at you, it would be churlish of me to complain.” he said, and was delighted to see her cheeks go pink.

“Looking at your outfit.” he suggested, “I might possibly be looking at a girl who was hoping to be taken out in a punt.” She was wearing a blue cotton print frock, attractive enough, but clearly not her best and was wearing worn but recently cleaned gym-shoes on otherwise bare feet.

“I was.” she admitted, “but not if you don’t like the idea.”

“I’d love to take you out in a punt.” he said.

For some reason, which he could not ascertain, plenty of punts seemed to be available but none were available to hire until three o’clock. They walked to the Botanic gardens, which were not quite so handily placed as those in Oxford. Probably because of this, they were agreeably deserted.

Dorothea admired the roses. Gerry broke one of them off on a short stem and pulled the thorns off it.

“Have you got a pin or something?” he asked. She produced a safety pin from somewhere in her bag.

“Will this do?”

“Admirably.”

With great concentration, he pinned the rose to the shoulder of her dress, making several attempts before he could stop it twisting round and hanging head downwards. In the end, he had to use the safety pin as though it was an ordinary pin. They were both breathing a little, a very little, faster.

“Thank you.” She said it quite seriously. A very Dorothea- style courtesy.

 He kissed her, one arm around her waist, one hand buried in her hair. This kiss was not brief, nor was it quite so gentle. It was clear to Gerry that this was the first time anyone had kissed Dorothea in this fashion. He, on the other hand, had kissed dozens of girls like this. It had never been like this.

“You’re beautiful. Are you angry with me?”

“Not angry, no.”

He pulled her closer and kissed her again. This time, one of her hands clung to the front of his uniform. After a while, he cupped her face in both hands and said,

“You realise I love you very, very much, don’t you?”

Holding his eyes with hers, she nodded, very, very slightly. He did not know if he was saddened that she had not said that she loved him in return, or pleased that she was too honest to give that easy assurance.

Some while later, they looked for and found Dorothea’s hair ribbon, which had fallen out.

“Maybe I’d better plait it if we’re going to be in a boat.” she said. 

He was surprised how much shorter her waist length hair was when it was plaited.

“What a strange looking squirrel!” Dorothea said.

Gerry glanced down. It was loitering hopefully a few inches from his shoes, evidently used to being fed by visitors.

“It looks quite ordinary to me.” he said, “Maybe a bit fat. Why? How do you think it should look?”

“Well, more like a squirrel. You know, red all over and fluffier and a lot smaller and its ears should be a more tufty. You must know. Beatrix Potter books when you were smaller, if nothing else.”

“Oh, you mean Red Squirrels. They’re a totally different species. These little grey chappies are displacing them. I suppose you were still seeing the red squirrels in the Lake District. The grey ones seem to be spreading from east to west. It’s the sort of thing my pater frets about as a sort of break from fretting about other things.”

“What does your father do?”

“Oh, he manages some land.” said Gerry hastily. “What about a spot of lunch before we go on the river?” 

Leaving the disappointed squirrel, they walked back the way they had come, hand-in-hand.

* * *

 

As Gerry had more than half expected, Dorothea handled a punt very competently. Eventually they moored partly concealed by willow trees. At this point, the pre-war Gerry would have managed to produce something in the way of a picnic. Well, they had not long had lunch. Perhaps it didn’t matter that the best he could manage was small bottle of ginger beer each. She had said she liked ginger beer. He would have preferred beer.

“They’re rather warm, I’m afraid.” He apologised.

“We could tie them with string and dangle them in the water.” Dorothea suggested.

She’s going to pull a piece of string from her bag any minute now, he thought.

“I think I’ve got something in my pocket that might do. It’s a bit short though.”

She would cope with the complexities of Duke’s Denver. She would make an admirable Duchess. Gerry felt an unaccustomed pang of guilt. He spent years trying to pretend the responsibility of the Dukedom was never going to happen to him; he had let his father’s lectures on “Responsibility to the Land” slide over him, as though he had been certain that he never would inherit, as though he was certain his courtesy title was the only one that would ever be his. Well, his father was tough as old boots.  There was probably plenty of time yet for sheer enjoyment. Perhaps he was doing her no injury by asking her to marry him. She had not yes said yet. Every other girl he had kissed would have jumped at the chance to be Lady St. George. He realised with a thrill that was somewhere exaltation and stomach-churning terror that he was not at all sure what Dorothea would say.

“Is there a special type of knot for this sort of thing?” he asked, obediently holding the ginger beer bottles as instructed.

“If there is, I don’t know it.” she replied, almost absently. “There, you can lower it now.”

Kneeling in a punt and looking reasonably dignified is not especially easy. Gerry decided to give it a try anyway. What was the worst that could happen? Well, she might laugh and say “no”. She might do that anyway. Somehow, he didn’t think she would laugh. He was more worried about the “no”.

In the event, she didn’t laugh and she didn’t say “no”. The trouble was she didn’t say “yes” either.

Her face was grave. “I just don’t know you well enough.”

“Dorothea, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have asked you in that case. Please don’t say that you’ll stop seeing me will you?”  A sudden dreadful thought struck him. “There isn’t anyone else is there? Someone you’ve not been mentioning?”

“I wouldn’t be here with you now if there was!” she replied. It was the first time, he had seen her genuinely indignant, the first hint of any temper she had shown. It did her credit, he decided as he hastened to apologise.

Sitting in a punt can be straight-forward enough, but is not especially relaxing. Much better to lie back and watch the clouds passing across one another, he pointed out. Besides, the sides of the punt kept them out of the cool breeze. She lay for a little while with her head on his shoulder, asking questions about his family. Most of these he found he could answer quite honestly without giving too much away. His mother was in London, in the Ministry of instruction and something or other. His father remained at home, managing land.

“He’s too old anyway now. He was in the last show of course.” They asked each other questions about school, about pets they had had as children, about when they had stopped believing in Father Christmas, about all the silly and sensible and important and inconsequential things that made up Gerry-before-Dorothea and Dorothea-before-Gerry. Almost unconsciously (almost) Gerry moved the hand that was around her shoulders a little, fingers stroking her back, her shoulder through the thin cotton of her dress. He was watching her face carefully. She twitched very slightly.

“Do you dislike that? Shall I stop?”

“I don’t dislike it, it just feels, shivery. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Then don’t. I hope that means you like me at least a little.”

“Gerry, I like you more than just a little, surely you must realise that?”

He grinned, mischievously. “I had hoped.” He kissed her at some length. “When may I make my next honourable proposal?”

“Well, I certainly hope you aren’t going to make a dishonourable one!” She grinned back.

He laughed as if the thought would never have crossed his mind.

“Would now be convenient? Or shall I wait until your next day off?”

She frowned a little at this. “Gerry, I’m sorry, but I had more than half arranged to meet a friend on my next day off. I haven’t seen Peggy since the beginning of the war.”

“She can’t possibly want to see you as much as I do. Is she local to you? Couldn’t you see her another time? Why don’t you write and see if she minds you rearranging? What’s she doing? Or is that frightfully hush-hush and important too?”

“I keep telling you, I’m just filing and so on. Peggy’s a Wren, or at least she will be. She’s at Mill Hill and London is fairly easy for me to get to, but she won’t be there for that long and then she’s likely to be posted somewhere much harder to reach.”

“You could write and see what she says. I’m mean, are you completely sure she will get the time off?”

It was Dorothea who suggested that since they had the hire of the punt for the afternoon, they had better make the most of it.

When, after an early supper Dorothea said that she really had better get the train back, he asked, “If you’re at work from midnight until nine for the next week, does that mean you’re free in the evenings? Could I come over and see you? Just for a few hours?”

“That’s a long way for a few hours.”

“Worth it. Not tomorrow or the next day. Maybe the one after?”

And her train was about to go, and there was time for one last kiss and then a scramble it get into a carriage and he had called out “Three days’ time!” and she called back “Yes!” before she had really decided. And then the train pulled out and she had found herself a seat eventually and sat down to do some serious thinking.

Gerry Bredon was not who he said he was. The resemblance to his uncle had struck her once she had seen him in profile against an ecclesiastical-looking window. He looked for a moment so like his uncle had looked in the little church at Nancy and John’s wedding. The chin, nose and fair hair were all the same.  So were the build and, strangely, the hands. So the aunt in the country would be Harriet Vane. The aunt driving ambulances was presumably Lady Mary, after whom she had heard Captain Flint asking at Nancy and John wedding. That meant that Gerry was Gerry Wimsey, heir to a Dukedom and presumably Lord something-or-other. There would be a courtesy title, but she had no idea what it was. She really could not see herself as a grand lady. It would be better not to see him again, before they became too involved, before saying good-bye would become too painful. Somewhere in the course of the day it had become far too late for that

 This wasn’t just Lord Whatever who would easily find another girl who belonged in his world far more than Dorothea did. This was Flying Officer Gerry Wimsey, prepared to risk his life for his country. He had volunteered as soon as war was declared. She had a lot more sympathy for the Flying Officer than the aristocrat.

And this was Gerry, who had looked so anxious as he had asked her to marry him, who had been so gentle and patient about her indecisive reply, who had told her she was beautiful and had looked at her as if she was the most precious being he could imagine. This was Gerry, who said he loved her with the unmistakable ring of truth in his voice. This was the man whose kisses had made her feel….. Dorothea, so good with words, didn’t know the word for how she felt, but it mattered. It mattered terribly. Perhaps this was how being in love felt. She had written about it enough. How absurd that she was not sure what it actually felt like.

She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she nearly forgot to get out at Bletchley Station.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Dear Dot,

You might object to what I’m going to say, but read it anyway. I’ve been to some trouble on your behalf. I’m now **in** trouble as well. If you want to keep something secret, telling Peggy about it isn’t the way. She’s upset – can’t say I blame her – and blew off steam to Nancy. Nancy has written to me. Galoot was about the kindest thing she called me. She does have a point though.

I’ve been making a few discreet enquires about Gerry Wimsey. At least, I thought they were discrete but, as the first comment was “Good God, Walker, please don’t tell me your sister’s walking out with him.” I don’t think I was. That should tell you something anyway.

Don’t get me wrong, as a pilot he’s brilliant, never shows any hesitation in getting involved in a scrap, has excellent eyesight (it is important, believe me) and has plenty of kills to his credit. In short, Wimsey’s a bit of a hero. I’m not saying anything again the chap as a pilot. If you were just seeing him occasionally, I might not feel bothered. I wasn’t worried about him walking you to the station. He hasn’t got a bad reputation in that way.

But if you’re getting serious about him, that’s another matter. (I don’t think for a minute you’d mess Peggy about like that if you didn’t feel seriously about him.) Thing is – he might not be so serious about you. I gather his tastes run to fast cars, fast girls (note the pleural), cards, horses, night clubs that would make your hair curl…. You get the picture. I’d be nearly as upset to see you get hurt as I would if it were Titty. That’s why I’m saying something now.

And honestly, Dot, you don’t have to be flattered by the attention. You must realise that you’re not bad looking. I fact I got a certain amount of stick from the other fellows about arriving at that dance with a very pretty girl and leaving with a much less pretty one.  (She talked about her fiancé in the army all the way home after just happening not to mention him all evening. I’m not bothered.)

Anyway, I hope you’re not mad at me for saying all this. I somehow don’t think this is the only letter you’ll get on the subject. Just as well none of us have Dick’s address.

Roger

* * *

 

 

 

Dear Peggy,

Yes, I’d love to see you, of course and don’t worry about the short notice. I’ve got an early shift that day, so I won’t be home until two and we’ll have a late lunch. If you want to arrive earlier Lillian will be in. We’re both looking forward to seeing you and having a good catch up.

Much love,

Aunt Helen.

* * *

 

Sometimes, Nancy Walker really didn’t like being able to see two sides to an argument. It was much simpler just to see one. Of course she was furious with Dot for hurting her sister’s feelings. But Nancy also had to admit that if she had the chance to spend any time with John she would do just as Dot had done. She closed her eyes. She missed him so much. Most of the time, when she was busy, she could keep the feeling to a niggling ache somewhere in the back of her mind. Sometimes, when she had a moment to think, it swept over her in a cold wave.

She opened her eyes. If Dot felt for Gerry Wimsey even a tiny fraction of what Nancy felt for John, she might be heading for a great deal of misery. Nancy had met Lord and Lady Peter Wimsey when they had brought the Arbuthnots to Beckfoot. Her uncle had told Nancy a little about the family before they arrived. There was a Lady Mary, now married to some senior policeman. Nancy had somehow had the impression that her uncle had rather a soft spot for the Lady Mary. There was the Duke, about whom there was some sort of scandal. He had been accused of murder but had really been having an affair. The Duke had a Duchess who sounded repellently like the Great Aunt. They had one son, who was “a bit too wild”. From most people that might mean nothing. Her uncle was himself a black sheep. What you would have to do to be “a bit too wild” in her uncle’s opinion would have to be something extremely worrying. And Dot, prim, proper and conventional had learned a lot in the nine years in which Nancy had known her, but still had a worrying tendency to let anyone boss her about.

 The _best_ that seemed likely would be a heart-broken Dot when Flying Officer Wimsey moved on to someone else. She had seen two Wrens about POR forms in the last two months. One was a straightforward exploitation of paragraph 11. The girl had thought life as a Wren harder and less exciting than she expected. They were better off without her. Nancy herself was not even convinced there would be a baby, although the girl had given all the right answers. The other girl – Nancy compressed her lips at the thought of the other girl. She had been obedient, eager to please, anxious to be liked and too timid to ask anyone’s advice. In the end, Nancy had had to speak to her. She had tried to be as gentle as possible. The poor girl had genuinely believed the young man’s promises.

Telling Dot off wasn’t going to help, however hurt Peggy’s feelings were. Nancy didn’t feel she should put off writing to Dot either. She would do it before she wrote to John.

* * *

 

_Fragment of a letter from Peggy to Nancy:_

   …. So I asked Jim if he knew anything about him. They must have been up at Oxford at the same time. Jim said that he didn’t know him except to speak to slightly. This lad seems thoroughly unsuitable (I don’t just mean it how the Great Aunt would mean it.) Drinking, fast cars, losing money on cards. There was a suspicion that he sometimes staked money he hadn’t got. I expect there was more that Jim wouldn’t like to tell me. I didn’t mention Dot’s name, of course, I just said a friend had been seeing him and I wondered what he was like……

* * *

 

_Fragment of a letter from John to Nancy._

…..of course, darling, by the time you read this whatever happens will have happened. No, I didn’t know Peggy was writing to Jim Brading. How long has that been going on for? Susan hasn’t mentioned it. She presumably is the connection, because they haven’t met apart from at our wedding. I haven’t got an address for Dick apart from that box number that you say gets no reply. Roger says he hasn’t heard from him for ages. I suppose under the circumstances you can’t ask Dot for his address. If you do get an address for him, don’t send it to me. If Dick is working out a way to defeat Hitler with a safety pin and three sticks, it’s safer not to have the place where he’s doing it on a piece of paper in my pocket! I have quite enough things to worry about destroying and disposing of anyway, if it came to it.

I miss you terribly. I know I should be used to it by now, but it doesn’t get any better with time ….

* * *

 

_Titty to Nancy_

 “….. No, I haven’t heard from Dot for about three weeks. She was going to some dance or other with Roger, so he’s probably heard from her more recently. I’ve written to Dick a couple of times and had one postcard, with no return address and a London postmark. Why do you ask?......

* * *

 

Dearest of Aunts, (and Uncle Peter, too, if he’s about),

May I come for lunch (if I can scare up enough fuel for the bike) a week on Tuesday and bring the girl I’m going to marry with me? That is if she can get the time off – and if I can.

I’m not making the _faux pas_ in introducing Dorothea to you rather than the mater first, because she hasn’t actually said “yes” yet.  I do feel I have more chance of her saying “yes” if she meets you first, rather than my disapproving mama. Not that she’s got anything to disapprove of, but I imagine she will do so on general principles.

Actually, oh best of my aunts, you might possibly have met Dorothea before. She’s a Shrewsbury College student – or rather old student since she graduated this summer. You gave them a lecture on writing novels or some such, didn’t you? Her name is Dorothea Callum.

You’ll say this after I meet her, but I’ll say it now and save you trouble. Dorothea is much too good for me and deserves better. I’ll just have to try to be good (or at least better).

With love to all,

Gerry

* * *

 

Harriet raised her eyebrows and handed the letter over to her husband.

“I do remember her. She had been writing historical adventure and historical romances. Lively stuff, well done. I put her in touch with a suitable publisher and she wrote a very nice letter of thanks. We met her again, at that wedding last summer, just before war was declared. She did one of the readings.”

“Tall girl, blonde? Parents talked to Hope Bunter a great deal? Archaeologists?”

“That’s her.”

“If she’s got any sense, Helen will fall on her knees and give thanks fasting.” said Peter.

Harriet looked out of the window at their elder son playing on the lawn, a little further away from the dukedom than he had been only five minutes before.

“So should we.” said Harriet firmly.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

As soon as he had posted the letter, Gerry spotted the flaw in his plan.  His uncle’s extraordinary share of human curiosity would ensure that he and Dorothea would be invited for lunch. He was relying on that. Even allowing for the possibility that Harriet might not have met or remembered Dorothea, Dorothea would remember Harriet. Anyway, there would be introductions. He would just have to come clean to Dorothea. She had admitted that she liked him a great deal. Even if she was angry at the deception, he had a fair chance of winning her round.

* * *

 

 “There isn’t any butter.” said Dorothea, “but I’ve got bread, and I’ve got a kettle and a penknife. I’ve been saving my tea-ration as much as possible. I don’t see how we’re to manage for milk.”

“I don’t mind tea without.” said Gerry, “and my grandmother sent me this. It came from a friend of hers in America. Cornelia someone. She sent a few of these tins.”

Dorothea examined the tin critically.

“It looks as if you don’t have to cook it. Maybe it’s like corned-beef but pork. Look, you’ll have to wait here. My landlady won’t countenance a man in a young lady’s bedroom, not even with the door wide open. Being allowed to stand in the front room is a great concession to your uniform. She wouldn’t let my brother in the house, when he came to see me.”

“I better hadn’t push my luck by sitting down then?” Gerry suggested.

“Better not, I should think.”

Gerry thought he had never seen so many crocheted doilies in one place, not even at the Sale of Work his mother had compelled him to attend when he was in more than the usual amount of trouble. That had been the business with the flag-pole. Well, everyone did something like that with a flag-pole. Gerry, then aged 15, had thought the flag-pole just asked to be adorned with underwear. His mother had nagged for weeks. His father had roared at him. He hadn’t cared. His uncle had raised one eyebrow and said gently, “But should it have been your sister’s underwear? Would you have much time for a fellow who didn’t look out for his sister?” Gerry had felt ashamed.

Dorothea was back in the room with a knapsack on her back, the spout of the kettle sticking out of one corner.

“One plate and one mug between us.” she said cheerfully. “I’ve never been on a motor cycle before.”

“Nothing to it.” He assured her. “Keep your legs away from the chain and hold on to me. I’m afraid you’re not going to be comfortable.”

“It doesn’t matter. We aren’t going far.”

She hadn’t complained. The enamel plate and mug had made a terrible racket banging against the kettle. They had found a spot in the edge of some woodland, still warm in the early evening sun. She had made a small fireplace, used a penknife to trim some sticks to support the kettle and started gathering firewood.  She had sent him to find some water and smiled at him as if he had accomplished something great when he came back with a kettle more than half full. He had watched in awe as she lit the fire with one match. They drank black tea with at least a little sugar out of the same mug and ate the sandwiches off the same plate. They both gave the same verdict on the Spam. It wasn’t as good as corned beef, but it might be worse.

He wanted to feed the fire again. She wouldn’t let him.

“We’ll have to go soon.” she said. And then she had smiled at shyly. “We might want to come back here another time?”

He had smiled and held her closer.

“Yes.” He agreed. They kissed. He could not help wincing as her hand brushed against the sore place on his neck.

“If you’re not looking round constantly you don’t last long.” He told her. “I mislaid my scarf. Always was a careless blighter about that sort of thing.” She looked at him seriously.

“There’s something more important I have to confess to.” he began.

* * *

 

She untied the scarf from her hair, when she got off the bike outside her billet.

“It’s silk.” she said, “And at least it isn’t pink. Or flowery.”

“I’d wear it even if it was.” he said as she tucked it down inside his collar. He caught her hand and kissed it, disregarding the twitching of the lace curtains in the front room.

* * *

 

Dear Roger,

I’ve just had a letter from Dorothea. Nothing doing. She sent me a pretty dusty reply. Unless you got a much better response than I did, we haven’t achieved much. My suggestion: my fault. It’s obvious we should both have saved our paper and ink. I’m sorry about that. Anyway, I’m glad you’re enjoying the training. I think I’m safe enough letting Bridget use my rod and line. I just hope she catches a few decent meals with it, especially if Cook is at odds with the butcher! (No, I don’t know why. Peggy would be better if Bridget wants local gossip!)

Nancy

* * *

 

 

It was one of those things that could be done more easily on a day shift. Dorothea didn’t like to admit to herself that she had been putting it off, fearful about what she might hear. One of the things that Dorothea enjoyed about working at Bletchley was the mixture of personalities and background. People still tended to form little groups with like-minded people, of course. Dorothea had tended to remain on the fringes of a number of these little groups, accepted as a friendly face and someone to talk to, but not really belonging. She was used to this; it had happened at school and to a lesser extent at Oxford, where people tended to be more wrapped up in their own work anyway. The only time she had really belonged…. Absent-mindedly, she put her hand in her pocket. Perhaps her reply to Roger’s anxious letter had been a bit harsh. She had been even brusquer in her reply to Nancy.

She pulled the letter out of her pocket and read the last few lines.

“ _Of course I hope that I’m worrying over nothing, but I can’t help it_. _I know_ _you’re a sensible person. But anyone can be not-so-sensible when it comes to feelings.”_

Dorothea felt thoroughly ashamed of her reply to Nancy now. She, after all, would be seeing Gerry in a couple of days’ time. How long would it be until Nancy saw John again?

Dorothea had dithered for quite long enough.  She picked up her tray, spotted three of the “Deb.s” sitting together at a table and went over to join them. They were bound to know a little more about Gerry Wimsey.

* * *

 

Her little room had no space for any kind of desk. In any case, her landlady could not understand how anyone might write for pleasure. Dorothea had found a smooth piece of wood left by the previous lodger, which she used as a writing board. It looked as if it had been used to paint water-colour landscapes, since a great deal of blue had spread on to the top half and a great deal of green and brown had spilled out on to the bottom half.

She would write to her mother first. She should really have done so earlier. It had felt equally wrong to mention or not mention the letters from Nancy and Roger. Her mother would be sure to ask how Peggy was, and Dorothea had not quite liked to explain about that, either.

Gerry had come clean about who he was and his motives for giving a false surname. He was taking her to meet his aunt and uncle. He had asked twice her to marry him. Whatever Nancy or Roger or the debs she had sat with at lunch had said, he plainly didn’t consider her as this month’s girl.  She really ought to tell her mother something about him. Perhaps it would be a good idea to take Gerry to meet her parents.

* * *

 

To Dorothea Callum from her mother.

“  …. Lovely to hear your news. I’ve never met your Gerry of course, but I’ve met his parents once or twice, before the last war, when I still went to that sort of party (and very dull they were.) His grandmother was the one who made the greatest impression on me, but of course you met her when Nancy invited you to that first night. Yes, your father and I would love to meet him. However time off will be a little tricky in the immediate future.

 Your aged parents are not quite as over the hill as you might think. We seem to have joined the war effort is something of a hurry. A colleague of you father’s suggested he trot along and see someone in the Air Ministry about doing something to help. We both went. (Someone had to see to it that your father arrived on time.) Your father said the words “archaeologist” and “interpreting aerial photographs” were barely out of his mouth when they were all for getting him into a uniform that minute (within the hour anyway) and sending him to somewhere in Wembley that afternoon. He mentioned I could also interpret photographs and I was summoned in from the outer office and the same thing happened. So by three o’clock there we were, your father in an RAF uniform, me in a WAAF uniform, interpreting photographs. I thought we would have to have some kind of basic training at least, but apparently there’s not time for that. All this happened yesterday, and I haven’t liked to ask if we get Sunday off yet. I would imagine not.  Perhaps if you brought Gerry to London with you when you next have the same day off together? As you can tell by the address, we are still living at home until someone tells us otherwise…..”

* * *

 

From Nancy to John

……… Mother says Bridget is chirpy enough, although she seems to race through her homework in about ten minutes and so does Elspeth.  (Mother _is_ checking that really is all they are getting – having had far too much experience with Peggy and me!) 

I’ve had two letters from Dot. One was pretty terse and didn’t amount to more than a “mind your own business.” The second was apologetic about the first, but pointed to me at some length that I was wrong about Gerry! I would be very happy to be proved wrong! I may have been worrying needlessly about his intentions, as he has taken her to meet his uncle and aunt. However, the Luftwaffe seems able to give us plenty to worry about at the moment. …………


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: in this chapter “Gerald” is the Duke of Denver, Gerry’s father. “Helen” is Gerry’s mother, the Duchess of Denver.

 

Dorothea wished for overcast skies and driving rain. The clear, fine weather enabled the Luftwaffe to keep coming, day after day. When he was in the air he was in danger. When he was on the ground he was in danger. Airfields were being targeted. His letters were brief and sounded buoyant. She wrote every day; that was something she could do for him. She had never had difficulty in writing long, chatty letters to anyone. After the first week she came to realise how little there was to write about, how little they had really shared together. She had said as much in one of their infrequent, difficult-to-organise phone-calls to each other.

“I like it when you tell me stories.” he had said, “Not the stories you write to be published. Things that happened to you when you were a kid. Things you used to do when you were younger, with your friends.” 

He had sounded tired then and had said, later in the same phone-call. “It’s you that keeps me going.”

So she had written about prospecting for gold on the fells, about the crag-fast sheep, about the time the Death and Glories had been accused of casting boats off, about hiding from the Great Aunt in the Dogs’ Home, about Dick photographing the Divers’ nest.

As Dorothea wrote about them, she began to miss the others more. She had not thought much about anything but work and Gerry since the middle of June. An increasing number of Wrens were posted to Bletchley. She hoped that one of them might be Peggy or Nancy and then realised that the majority of Wrens posted there were quite tall. She asked one of them about it.

“One of the things we do goes better if you’re over five foot eight.” Dorothea was told. That was nearly Dorothea’s own height. Peggy and Nancy were both definitely shorter than she was.

She did receive the occasional postcard from Dick and longer letters from Titty. She had told Titty a little about Gerry. Peggy had written once, a rather stilted letter, but not unfriendly. Nancy had written breezy, cheerful letter, giving a new address in Scotland. She never expected to hear from John or Susan of course, and Port and Starboard had always been irregular correspondents. Mrs Barrable wrote she believed they were “away doing war work.” If Dick heard from Tom at all, he never mentioned it. She had a brief letter from Roger. He would have finished training by now.

 “ _I had a letter from Titty, telling me some of your news. If I was wrong, I’m very glad of it. I’m having a busy enough time at the moment without worrying about you too! It helps to know you’d be there for Titty if anything did go wrong. Not that it will.”_

Dorothea worked all the hours she was asked to, working through a number of rest days. Eventually, the seemingly relentless series of attacks would stop. Eventually, they would come to the end of this Battle of Britain. Eventually, she would see Gerry and he would ask her again for an answer and she would have to give one. With every phone call, with every letter, the answer she would give was becoming clearer. It really would be impossible to say anything else.

“Eventually” came near the end of August. The weather gave a few days respite. At Gerry’s suggestion, she asked for a day off even though it wasn’t her normal rest day, pointing out the extra hours and days she had worked. To her immense surprise, she received them. Her colleague Violet was less surprised.

“It’s not just that you’re good at your job. You’re good at; well I can only call it “boffin management” too. And you have been putting in the extra hours.”

Gerry had given her the name of a quiet country inn, not too far from his base. It had felt faintly daring to ring up and book a room for herself. The train was delayed and she arrived at the station late. Gerry met her. He looked tired. They ate at the inn and then went for a walk. It was still mainly overcast, but gleams from the setting sun came through the clouds at odd moments, giving an air of unreality. They pushed along an overgrown footpath that led eventually to a small patch of woodland.

With his arms tightly around her, between kisses, Gerry asked her again. This time Dorothea said “yes”.

“You’re sure?” he asked anxiously. “You’re not going to tell me tomorrow that you’ve changed your mind and want more time to think?”

“Gerry, I would never do something like that to you.” said Dorothea, realising with sudden chilling clarity just how much more fragile and vulnerable Gerry was in so many ways.

“They’ll try to make me give you some family heirloom for an engagement ring.” he said, “I’d rather, if you don’t mind, buy you a ring I’ve earned myself, with no history. I want it to be just about the two of us, just about Dorothea and Gerry, nothing to do with my family. Only, I know I won’t be able to afford anything very impressive.”

“I would like that very much indeed.” she said. “To be honest, I hadn’t even realised it would mean a ring.”

He laughed. “That’s what I love so much about you, Dorothea.” He kissed her fingers, where a ring would be. “Well, one of the things anyway.”

It was already nearly dark. As they walked back to the inn, Gerry made another suggestion, one that Dorothea knew she should feel shocked about, and found she had somehow been half-expecting.

“They don’t seem to be the sort of place that asks to see wedding certificates, and I’ll slip away very discretely and early in the morning.” he explained, hopefully watching her face to see how she would react.

* * *

 

“…. And of course we don’t know who her people are.” said Helen. Harriet felt the familiar surge of contempt that she so often felt in conversations with the Duchess of Denver.

“Might be perfectly sound of course.” said the Duke optimistically.

“She graduated this year, so I suppose she’s twenty-one or two.” said Harriet with careful mildness. There was simply nothing to be done about Helen. Harriet would do what she could to make sure that Dorothea had the support of her future father-in-law.

“She’s a quiet girl.” Harriet continued. Helen’s face brightened slightly. Let the silly woman think that quiet meant the same as weak. Dorothea had three times as much character as the Duchess, although Harriet rather thought that Dorothea had still to discover this. Married to Gerry, she would need it.

“Brought up in London, but likes the countryside. Spent a lot of holidays in the Lake District.” Harriet added and saw Gerald’s expression lighten.

“Does she hunt?” the Duke asked. He was disposed to like any woman who might present him with a grandson and prevent his son from selling the whole estate after he was gone. Hunting would be a bonus.

“I believe she does fish.” said Harriet. Bredon had been delighted to have Dorothea show him how trout should be tickled, when Gerry had brought her to Talboys. Harriet felt this was best not mentioned yet. Dorothea had said she possessed a rod and line, too.

“But will she know how to go on?” asked Helen. “Does she know the right people? Will she be able to manage servants?”

 “I’m sure that what she doesn’t know she can quickly learn.” began Harriet gravely, as Bunter entered the room carrying the “Who’s Who.” This was not the commercially available copy, but an altogether more individual volume. Most of the entries were in Bunter’s writing. Some were in Peter’s. A few of the more recent ones were in Harriet’s own writing.

“I hope, my lord, you will not think I have taken a liberty in finding the entry for Miss Callum’s mother.”

Peter nodded. Bunter held the book so that the Duke and Duchess could read the entry. Harriet noticed that Bunter did not let go of the book. They could all tell that Helen was itching to leaf through it to see if any of the entries were more scandalous. There was nothing to give Helen food for gossip here. Even the last line “1918, married Richard Callum, the lucky blighter” was unexceptional, written as it had been, by a bachelor in his twenties.

“Came out two years after you did.” Gerald remarked to his wife. “Well, I must say I am relieved. We must both write to this girl tonight and make her feel welcome. Gerry gave us an address.”  

 

****


	7. Chapter 7

 

Peter had been nearest and so had answered the telephone himself. Harriet had been in the kitchen, supervising a riotous midday dinner.

“Harriet?”

One look at Peter’s face, appearing at the kitchen door made her abandon the children to Mrs Trapp’s care and join him in the hallway.

It was a moment before Peter was able to speak.

“That was my brother on the telephone.” He swallowed.

“Gerry?”

He nodded.

“Injured? Missing?” she asked.

Peter shook his head.

“It’s quite certain,” he said. “I, I need to go there but first, I need to go and see –“

Harriet nodded, remembering the conversation with Gerry, just a few short months ago, about will forms and letters and things he would rather not have his parents know. Gerry would have relied on his uncle, as he had done on so many occasions in the past. She hoped there would not be anything there that would add to Dorothea’s misery.

“Harriet, Dorothea can’t hear about this from Helen or Gerald.” he said, “I hate to ask it of you, but will you go? Are you feeling up to it?”

Harriet nodded. The queasiness had subsided now and had presented no real problem for the last few weeks. “I’ve got the address.” she said. “We haven’t got the petrol for us both to go by car. I’ll go by train.”

She continued, “Peter, what about the children? It seems brutal to tell them and then for both of us to go away, even if I will be back this evening. But then, they may overhear things. Young Charlie is quick enough. He’ll know something is up. And he’s very attached to Gerry.”

“I’ll ring Mary and Charles.” Peter replied, wrapping his arms around her, as much to receive comfort as to give it. “One of them may be able to come up; I don’t like the thought of you leaving Dorothea alone if there’s no-one there for her. We’ll leave Bunter here I think. Maybe you should pack a toothbrush or something, just in case.  And Harriet?”

He held her a little away from him, looking anxiously at her face.

“Remember, Flight Lieutenant Brinklow – the real Brinklow? Remember Joan?”

Harriet nodded. “I don’t think that Dorothea is really the type of girl who….”

Her voice faded out. Joan Quarless hadn’t seemed “that type”. She thought of another Shrewsbury Old Student who hadn’t “seemed that type.”

“Gerry always did push his luck.” she said, quietly.

Peter nodded. “The question doesn’t come well from anyone. It will come least badly from you.”

Once, Harriet would have been sensitive to the implications about her own past reputation. Now she could see that Peter was referring to the fact that she was Gerry’s aunt, not his mother. Even Oxford itself was a shared bond. However many years apart it had been, they had eaten in the same room, sat in the same lecture hall, had tutorials with the same lecturers, walked along the same corridors and strolled across the same quad. Any little thing that would help Dorothea now was worth it.

“I’ll ring Charles first. He’ll know how to get hold of Mary at this time of day. She may be at home of course. You get together what you need. I’ll take you to the station on the way. Mrs Trapp will keep the children in the kitchen for a little while. She saw my face. So did Bunter.”

She was packing a few necessities in a small bag when Peter came into her bedroom.

“Mary has gone to tell Winifrid; she’s bringing her down to Duke’s Denver. Charles thinks he can get away in about an hour. He’ll be here overnight. He’ll have the leave early tomorrow morning. He’d rather tell Charlie and Polly himself. I said he was to tell Bredon if he had to, but otherwise leave it to us.”

Harriet nodded in reply to the unspoken question in his statement.

* * *

 

Dorothea’s landlady thought Lady Peter Wimsey merited a seat in the front room and a cup of tea while she waited. It was shortly after five o’clock. Harriet heard the squeal of brakes and the clank of a bicycle being chained to the drain-pipe. The railings had all been taken away, of course. There came the sound of a key in the door.  The landlady’s voice murmured in the passageway. Dorothea entered, smiling. Harriet could almost see she brought a little bubble of happiness with her. Or was that a combination of a writer’s fancy and the sunlight of a late September afternoon?

“Lady Peter, how lovely to see you.”

By the time she had got to the word “how” Dorothea had registered the expression on Harriet’s face, her despondent posture. The end of the exclamation trailed off with no energy behind it.

“Gerry?”

Harriet nodded. She had broken bad news before. She would do so again. This time was the worst. Dorothea accepted Harriet’s arm around her shoulders. She accepted the suggestion that Harriet should ring Dorothea’s mother.

“Only, I don’t know that she’ll be back from work yet. I’d better wait until later. I don’t want to go and have to keep trying. It’s too much like,like..” The first of the tears came then, brief and bitter. Harriet thought they afforded no relief.

A little later they sat silently. A crumpled handkerchief lay in Dorothea’s lap. Gerry’s signet ring was on her middle finger, presumably too large to stay securely on her ring finger. Harriet knew it was time to ask the question that someone needed to ask.

“Dorothea. I realise this isn’t an easy thing to ask anyone. I know you made Gerry happier than I had ever seen him. Happier, I think than he had been before. I was wondering. I know you were planning to marry soon, anyway, and these days, people tend to think differently about these things.”

Dorothea gazed at Harriet, patient and passive. It was Harriet who dropped her eyes, ashamed that she was not putting the thing better, but continuing doggedly.

“If that is the case and you should find…. Well you’ve seen how we are at Talboys. Another baby would be made very welcome. And so would you.”

Another long silence, filled by the intrusive tick of the mantelpiece clock. Dorothea seemed lost in her own thoughts. She gave herself a little shake, glanced at Harriet’s smock and said gently.

“I think you meant to say, another two babies.” Dorothea paused, before continuing, “That was a very difficult thing for you to say. Thank-you.”

Harriet knew that was all the answer she would receive.

* * *

 

“I say, I’m sorry to butt in like this, but, are you Wimsey’s father?”

“His uncle.”

The young flying officer had run fairly hard to catch Peter up, but was scarcely out of breath.

“I’m awfully sorry. We’ll all miss him a good deal.”

Peter judged that from this young man, it was the simple truth, not a polite formula.

“Sorry, I should have introduced myself, I’m Ronald Ashwell. I was one of the witnesses, as a matter of fact.”

“Peter Wimsey.” Peter offered his hand, transferring the rest of the bundle of letters to his left -hand. (There seemed to be an extraordinary number of them.) One bundle slipped loose from the blue hair-ribbon that bound them. As Flying Officer Ashwell helped to pick the letters up, Peter managed to glance at the signatures on Gerry’s will form. Ronald Ashwell was the sole witness.

“He was writing this letter when we scrambled. I picked it up when we came back.” Ashwell pulled a letter from his pocket and handed it to Wimsey. He looked rather anxiously at the older man and continued,

“Gerry said you had done something similar yourself. You won’t blame him will you? And I say, please don’t blame her. I don’t know much about this sort of thing, but I could see that she did it this way for him.”

Peter Wimsey glanced down at the letter. He read the salutation. He didn’t blame Dorothea. He didn’t blame either of them, but Helen undoubtedly would.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

Dorothea sat by herself. A bespectacled young man in civilian clothes and an older woman in WAAF uniform sat in the pew behind her. The rest of the church was filled with the friends and family of the Duke and Duchess, and of course some of the older servants who were too old to be called up. Most of Gerry’s own cronies were in the forces, of course. Nevertheless, the church was nearly full for the funeral of Viscount St. George.

Helen had firmly steered Gerald to the other front-pew on the opposite side of the church. Harriet, acutely conscious of her own two sons, playing safely in the garden of Talboys under Mrs Trapp’s watchful eye, could not find it in her heart to condemn Helen today.

It was so easy to overlook Lady Winifred. Many people forgot about her. Most saw her only as an insipid shadow of her chilly mother. Lady Winifred stopped following her mother in dreary duty when she got to the front of the church, sat in the opposite pew and put an arm around her brother’s widow.


End file.
